


Lose Control

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Bickering, Jealousy, M/M, Some Humor, Some Plot, Some naughty stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:45:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5503484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where they're on a mission in Liverpool, where a rookie agent tags along. Something goes wrong during the assignment and Illya's jealous streak continues. Napoleon, as usual, is oblivious and Gaby, somehow, is caught in the middle of it, sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lose Control

Napoleon curses as he carefully lifts the edge of his shirt. He winces at the bloody gash about almost theee inches long at the right side of his waist. He feels as if no vital organs are hit but damn, it hurts like hell. Leaning heavily against the ragged brick wall, he tries to calm his breathing. Then, gingerly, he takes a knife out of his jacket, cuts a strip of his shirt sleeve and presses the piece of clothing over his bloodied waist before lowering his shirt to cover his injury. That will have to do for now. Until Illya finds him. He patiently waits and hopes.

 

***

 

Agent Snow is the one to find Napoleon not long after.

“Hey,” he says to the American whose eyes are drooping. Slowly, he lifts Napoleon’s chin up. “Solo, you okay?”

“You’re not Illya,” Napoleon murmurs once he has regained his focus. Snow decides to ignore Napoleon’s remark, helps him to his feet before putting an arm around Napoleon’s torso but mindful of his injury.

“Where’s Illya? And Gaby?” Napoleon asks after they have come to a clearing. The area they had infiltrated, a loading dock being used to hide stolen goods, are now a couple of yards behind them. Snow had managed to bring Napoleon instead to a back alley, littered with dumpsters and empty crate boxes.

“There’s a car I managed to hot-wire. Illya and Gaby are waiting for us across the street in it. They’ve gotten the evidence we need,” Snow finally explains to the injured agent. He is aware that Napoleon is losing blood, but they cannot afford to stop for too long.

“We have to go, Solo.”

Napoleon nods. “I know. Come on then.”

But before they could move, Illya suddenly appears around the alley with a gun drawn towards them.

“It’s us!” Snow cries out, raises his hands, and the Russian immediately lowers down his weapon, gasps when he sees Napoleon’s bloodied state.

“Cowboy, are you—”

“I’m all right, just a gash,” Napoleon quickly says, not wanting Illya to worry. But his partner is on his side in no time at all, checking his injury with slightly shaky hands. He eyes Snow who is still holding on to Napoleon despite him being there. Although he should not feel it, something in his gut begins to stir, that icy cold feeling of jealousy but this is something they do not have the luxury of time to deal with, not now, not when they are still not out of the woods.

“Come on, Gaby’s waiting in the car,” Illya says in the end through gritted teeth, and lets Snow help Napoleon towards their vehicle. He keeps the area covered with the gun in his hands, just in case, but at the corner of his eyes, he notices how Napoleon is leaning heavily against Snow.

He clenches his jaw.

 

***

 

They are at the airport the next night, ready to board that flight back to London. Their assignment in Liverpool, stressful as it was, had been fairly successful and after getting the green light from Waverly, the three of them, together with Agent Snow, just cannot wait to get home.

“We should ask Waverly for an extended two weeks off for this Christmas,” Gaby sighs, leaning in her chair. “I just want to sleep right through.”

Agent Snow who is sitting next to her smiles. “Just sleep? You don’t have any other plans for the holidays?”

Gaby gives him a glance and then shakes her head. “Hmm, not at the moment.”

While the two are chatting, Illya shoots Napoleon a concerned look. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine,” Napoleon answers Illya, shifting a little uneasily in his seat. “It just stings once in a while but other than that I’m good.”

“It was a pretty deep cut. It was definitely not a gash.”

“Your stitches will hold up, Peril.”

“Whatever you say.”

Clearly Ilya is still unhappy at what had happened but getting injured now and again is part of their job and he will just have to learn to deal with it, Napoleon thinks. He wants to say this but instead offers an apology to the Russian.

“I’m sorry I made you worry.”

Napoleon hopes it will soften his foul mood but then the announcement ringing through the airport has just made it even worse.

 

***

 

“Well, agents, looks like we’ve to take the bus. I’d tried to rent a car, but nothing is available at this moment.”

Unusually heavy snow had foiled their plans, cancelling most flights out of the city and not wanting to spend the night in the crowded Liverpool airport, as all the hotels are fully booked due to the holiday season, they had to agree with Napoleon’s suggestion that they take a bus to London instead.

“This is just great, Solo,” Illya grumbles at him later while waiting for their bus. “An almost six hour trip?”

“Do you have a better suggestion, Peril? Because if you do, I'm all ears.”

“We can wait it out?” Snow suddenly quips in before Illya could answer.

Realising him barging into the little argument between the two agents as a bad idea when he sees Illya’s murderous scowl, he quickly backs away and stands behind Gaby. Gaby wants to roll her eyes at the scene before her, at her two grown partners who bicker like little children, but she is too tired even to do that. When their bus finally arrives at the station a half hour later, she breathes a sigh of relief.

“I really can’t wait to get home and I don’t even care if it is a six hour journey. At least, I’ll be able to get some sleep,” she says to Napoleon as they wait for the other passengers to board the bus. She pats his arm gently. “Despite what Illya says, I really want to thank you for suggesting this.”

Napoleon smiles as he flicks his gaze at Illya. “At least, someone here appreciates me.”

Illya only scoffs listening to that.

Once on board, Napoleon quickly takes his seat next to Illya and does a quick scan of the bus. Almost all of the seats are taken. They are on the second last row, with Gaby and Agent Snow a couple of rows in front of them, and Napoleon’s secretly glad that no one is sitting adjacent to their seats. The back row seats are unoccupied and the ones right in front of them are empty as well, meaning they will have some privacy, and since it is going to be a long journey home, he will definitely get to spend some quality time with his brooding Russian partner if he allows it. With a couple of pillows and a large blanket provided to them, Napoleon figures the bus idea is not too bad after all.

The wintry shower began to pour pretty heavily as soon as the bus hits the main road. Freezing rain and ice pellets cascade down the window and every now and then, as Napoleon watches Illya carefully at his side, he could see the Russian’s face flicker from the lights coming from the outside of the moving vehicle.

Illya’s head is slightly tilted and it is such a welcomed sight for Napoleon. He could clearly see in full view the smooth expanse of skin that is Illya’s neck and it makes his breath hitch. He inadvertently licks his lips as suddenly he has this uncontrollable urge to bite and lick that tender skin he has had the privilege to taste a couple of times before. Inappropriate thoughts flash through his mind at what he wants to do to Illya and he is determined to turn it all into reality, despite knowing his partner is a little ticked off with him at the moment.

Napoleon waits for an opportune moment but barely fifteen minutes into the journey, he sees that Illya already has his eyes closed. His head is resting on the pillow he has placed against the bus’ window and he is obviously about to drift off when Napoleon interrupts him, nudges him on his shoulder.

“For fuck’s sakes, Peril, you can’t already be sleeping? What are you, a child?” he starts to complain. He nudges him even harder when he doesn’t respond, making Illya groan loudly.

“I’m very tired, Solo. What is it that you want?”

“What is it that I want? What kind of a question is that?” Napoleon mutters, feigning hurt. “I thought you’re going to make me feel better.”

Illya turns his head and rolls his eyes at Napoleon’s childish behaviour. His eyes are almost pleading and there is a slight pout on his lips. Illya has been defeated by that look numerous times previously, but not wanting to indulge his partner, and without saying anything further, he simply pulls the blanket that is covering both of their laps roughly over his body.

“I’m too tired. Can I sleep now?”

It isn’t even a question but more of a statement from Illya. He lowers his seat down almost to a lying position and turns his body away from Napoleon so that he is now facing the window.

Napoleon is not happy at Illya’s behaviour and wonders what he had done wrong. He can’t be this mad just because he had suggested them taking the bus? Did he want to be stranded at the airport with throngs of weary travellers? Or is he angry that Napoleon had gotten himself injured again? Questions swirl in his head as he wracks his brain trying to figure Illya out. And he certainly does not like the idea of being turned down so easily by Illya.

“Hey, are you angry at me or something?” Napoleon starts to question again and this time, it is his turn to pull the blanket off of Illya. The Russian growls.

“Fuck! Give me the blanket!” he shouts, his almost too loud response met by huge groans around the bus soon after. Obviously, the other passengers are not too happy at the ruckus the two agents are making.

“Oi! Keep it quiet back there!”

That complaint came from somewhere in the middle row. More hushing sounds came after that, followed by more groans and grunts. It is like a chain reaction. Napoleon could imagine Gaby joining in the fray, rolling her eyes at them. He wants to chuckle at the thought but then when more complaints could be heard, he lets out an exasperated sigh. He waits for it to die down.

“What a grumpy bunch all of you are,” Napoleon mutters under his breath after everyone has quietened down. Then, he shoots a glare at a smug looking Illya. “And you’re the grumpiest of them all.”

Illya merely snorts. “It is not my fault they are all grumpy. Anyway, you did start it all.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t start it.”

Napoleon clearly does not appreciate that he’s being blamed for the commotion on the bus. He wants to argue, wants to prove his point when Illya simply shakes his head.

“Look, I don’t want to talk. I just want to sleep. So, good night. Wake me up when we reach London.”

He quickly pulls the blanket off Napoleon's hand, puts it back over his lap, quickly turns around and is about to lay his head on the pillow once again when it is snatched right underneath his head.

“Oh no, you don’t. You’re not sleeping that easily!”

“What now?” Illya growls, tries his best to keep his tone as low as possible. His back is still facing Napoleon when he feels him shaking his shoulders. His efforts to ignore Napoleon is failing tremendously when the shaking grows more persistent. His partner is really testing his patience at the moment.

“Solo,” he warns, but Napoleon does not give up. He continues to prod Illya.

“I won’t let you sleep. Not until you tell me why you’re so angry with me.”

“I’m not angry, Solo.”

“Oh, really? Then why the hell do you keep calling me Solo? You only do that when you’re annoyed.”

“I call you Solo all the time.”

“No, not all the time, Peril. So come on now. Tell me what the matter is. Why are you angry?”

Illya lets out a loud defeated sigh and finally turns to face the scowling American again.

“I’m not angry nor am I annoyed. I just want to sleep and you are keeping me awake!”

“I don’t buy it,” Napoleon argues.

Unwittingly, he has leaned much closer to Illya and his right hand has somehow moved across Illya’s body, his palm now bracing against the bus’ window. The stretch of his arm puts a little strain on his wound but Napoleon ignores it. Illya, on the other hand, realising Napoleon’s rather provocative position, tries to push him away.

“Solo, please. Can I sleep now?”

“Will you stop calling me Solo? Where’s the familiar Cowboy?”

Illya rolls his eyes again. The argument is getting a tad ridiculous, but he is aware of their current incriminating position. Napoleon is fully leaning his body against Illya’s, whose hands are pressed up against Napoleon’s chest, trying his best to prevent him from going any lower. But he knows it is going to be a hopeless cause. He swallows hard when he realises Napoleon’s mouth is now inches away from his.

“Solo or Cowboy, what does it matter? I’m still addressing you, Napoleon Solo,” he says, trying to challenge Napoleon’s authority over him.

“Are you trying to be cute?”

“Cute is not the right word to describe me,” Illya hisses, indignant.

Napoleon’s face is hovering right above Illya’s, a stupid grin now plastered on his face. That infuriating look is somehow making Illya’s heart do mini flip-flops, something that he could not avoid whenever he is with this gorgeous man. It is rather obvious now what Napoleon is up to.

“Solo, what are you doing?” he questions, despite knowing Napoleon’s intentions, his voice sounding a little too raspy for his own liking. His resistance is dwindling fast. Napoleon is too close, far too close. Illya's head is saying no, but his heart wants that damn mouth on his.

“Solo, what—”

Napoleon’s hand has slid in underneath the blanket that is covering Illya’s lap and his very clever fingers are grasping his thighs slowly.

“I was all hot for you and I’ve got this nasty image of us together doing all sorts of wonderful things when you suddenly got all grumpy on me.”

“I am not grumpy,” Illya replies, trying to defend himself, but his words are not said with much conviction as Napoleon’s words and roaming hand are making it rather difficult for him to focus. His thighs are spread further apart and he feels those fingers creeping and inching its way slowly up, rubbing higher and higher. He tries to squeeze his legs together, but Napoleon is having none of that. He rubs down particularly hard and Illya gives out a sharp intake of breath.

Pressing his body back against the seat, his own fingers gripping the armrest tight, Illya bites his lips hard, suppressing a moan from escaping his mouth. He tries his hardest to be discreet, not wanting anyone on the bus to catch them in that rather compromising position, but Napoleon is making it extremely difficult for him.

“Solo, you better stop what you’re doing,” Illya moans softly. “This is not the time nor place. And you are injured.”

“So what if I’m injured?” Napoleon purrs and challenges Illya. “If you are that concerned, make me feel better.”

“Cowboy, please.”

He is happy he has got Illya calling him Cowboy again. Purposely, he drags his fingers over the obvious bulge between Illya’s legs and the Russian’s body jolts up in response. Napoleon wishes he could see what his hand is doing, but obviously, he is doing something right because Illya is clearly enjoying every second of it even though he is trying his damnedest to resist his advances.

“Cowboy, wait, wait,” he murmurs.

“What for?”

“Someone might see,” Illya breathes.

“Illya, I think they’re all sleeping like babies by now. No one’s going to see us.”

Before Illya could argue any further, Napoleon silences him with a long hard kiss that takes his breath away. His hand is now delving at the waistband of Illya’s pants, teasingly raking his fingers along his hard belly before plunging in towards his goal and curling his fingers firmly around Illya’s straining cock, already hard and waiting for his touch.

“Solo!” he moans out against Napoleon’s lips. Napoleon keeps on moving his hand cleverly on his length and Illya doesn’t even care now if anybody had heard him.

“You like that, don’t you?”

“Oh, God, Cowboy, please stop groping!” Illya whines, as he squirms in his seat. He tries to swat Napoleon’s probing hand away, but Napoleon manages to capture Illya’s wrist with his other hand and pins it just above his head.

“You drive me insane, Peril. And you know what?”

“What?” Illya asks breathlessly despite himself.

“Every time I see you in that black tactical gear during our missions, I just want to rip it off of you. You look so good in it, Peril, I swear…”

“You like to see me in it, but you want to rip it off. Make up your mind, Cowboy,” Illya teases.

“You fucking know well enough what I mean.”

Illya whimpers and arches up to Napoleon’s deft touches. He’s not about to lose this game they are playing. “You’ve no idea what you do to me too, Cowboy…in that…outfit.”

Cleverly, Illya’s free hand manages to brush against Napoleon’s crotch regardless of his more vulnerable position and he cups it, rough enough to make the American jerk, wincing at the sudden pain of his wound and also muttering obscene expletives as he is taken completely by surprise.

“This works both ways, Cowboy,” Illya murmurs, with a slight twinkle in his eyes. He feels a little guilty knowing Napoleon’s hurting, but the American deserves it for his shameless behaviour.

Napoleon stares down at Illya with heavy-lidded eyes, not quite believing that they are practically doing it in a bus full of passengers. They would be in trouble if they are caught, but Napoleon could not care less at the moment. In fact, they are too far gone to stop now and when Illya squeezes that little bit harder, Napoleon let his head fall against Illya’s shoulder, releases the Russian’s hand he had pinned.

“Illya—”

He is trembling under Illya’s touch but despite that, he still manages to tease his partner further by biting his earlobe gently, whispers filthy words that are certainly driving Illya that much closer to the brink.

“You like what you see, don’t you, Peril? Me in that black kit?”

Illya merely shudders at the intensity of Napoleon’s voice, his hot breath in his ear making his mind short circuit. He could not control the excitement that is flowing through his veins and jerks his hips up and writhes before moaning, “I like it very much, Cowboy. Love it in fact.”

“What do you want to do to me when you see me in it?”

Napoleon licks the outer shell of Illya’s ear languidly and at the same time, his fingers are working his magic on him, stroking him gently and agonisingly slow. Illya has forgotten his own hands on Napoleon’s cock, making him groan in disappointment at the sudden loss of contact. But he knows it is all about pleasuring Illya at the moment. When he flicks the leaking tip with his thumb, Illya moans again, his voice wanton and needy. The sensation is getting too much for him to handle.

“Tell me, Illya,” Napoleon continues teasing. “Tell me what you want to do to me.”

That heavenly tongue has moved down now, tracing patterns on his arched neck and when Napoleon bites hard on Illya’s exposed throat, he completely surrenders himself.

“I just…fuck, I just want to rip it off your body,” he moans. “Want to make you scream, Cowboy. Scream my name when I fuck you. Hard.”

Hearing that confession sent chills up and down Napoleon’s spine. Illya’s hot words are such a turn on that he grinds harder against the man underneath him. Illya sees what his words are doing to him and continues talking, but he could hardly recognise his own voice.

“You don’t know what you do to me, Cowboy. Out there during our missions. Off the field. In our office. Fuck, I have to have much self control or else…”

"God, Illya, you drive me fucking insane,” Napoleon interrupts him mid sentence, breathing hard against Illya’s neck.

“I think about you all night and all day, Cowboy. Today, yesterday, every fucking day. I just can’t get enough off you.”

Napoleon suddenly stops his ministrations, but his hand is still firmly grasping the Russian’s erection. Illya stares, wide eyed at Napoleon, not believing he is stopping when he is already so close.

“Solo,” he whimpers. “Please.”

“This isn’t what I’ve planned.”

“What did you plan?” Illya whines. He is writhing, trying his best to get that friction back up again, wanting him to continue the sweet torture. But Napoleon is determined to prolong Illya’s torment, not after he has gotten him all hot under the collar.

“You’re supposed to be under my control but now, fuck, look what you’ve done now.”

Illya’s hands have moved around Napoleon’s waist, pulling him tighter against his body. When Napoleon keeps still without doing what he wants the most, Illya begs unashamedly, with closed eyes.

“You always have total control over me, Cowboy,” he confesses throatily. “But for now, I need you to continue what you’re doing earlier.”

“You don’t know how possessive I am over you,” Napoleon says, pressing himself harder and closer, his actions driving Illya crazy. “No one should ever touch you, Illya. You’re mine.”

That spontaneous statement from Napoleon makes Illya’s eyes flutter open in an instant.

“But it’s okay for you to let other people touch you?”

“It’s always for the mission, Peril. It never means anything other than that.”

Realising where Illya is getting at and wanting him to forget what had just been said, Napoleon starts to stroke him again, harder and faster, this time making him arched up in his hands. Talking coherent words is getting more impossible with every growing second but Illya still manages a response.

“But I saw you…you and that rookie agent Snow. I saw you, Cowboy.”

For a split second, Napoleon fully understands the true underlying meaning of his words. “When?”

“During the mission, you let him touch you…”

“He was just helping me, Peril. I was bleeding to death.”

Illya shudders at Napoleon’s choice of words, knows he is exaggerating but nevertheless, it still made him angry.

“No matter. He shouldn’t have touched you like that.”

“Is that why you’re angry? You’re jealous?”

“I am not jealous,” he murmurs in between soft moans.

“Liar.”

Illya opens his mouth to respond to Napoleon’s accusations but instead, a sharp gasp escapes his lips when Napoleon starts tugging and kneading harder. Illya thrust his hips up unconsciously, trying to meet Napoleon’s rhythm.

“God, that feels so good.”

Illya is practically purring and Napoleon goes for the kill.

“Illya, Snow is just a boy compared to you. He’s nothing. Means nothing at all to me.”

“I like hearing that. Keep talking,” Illya whispers, loving the sensation as Napoleon is driving him to his peak. His head falls against the bus seat and Napoleon takes the opportunity to run his tongue slowly over his chin and jaw line before stopping against his parted lips.

Taking the Russian’s bottom lip in between his teeth, he bites down gently and murmurs in a husky tone, “And nothing he does can make me go crazy like this.”

Illya moans and then Napoleon is kissing him, kissing him like there is no tomorrow as his hand works furiously and urgently on him, tugging and cupping and the friction is just too much now for Illya to handle. His mind completely shuts down and he arches his back, concedes his defeat, releasing the warm and wet liquid all over Napoleon’s hands, his mouth open in a silent long moan as Napoleon watches him slowly come undone before his very eyes.

 

***

 

After overcoming his high, Illya opens his eyes to find Napoleon gently gazing at him.

“What was that for?” he asks, his breathing still ragged.

Napoleon doesn’t answer immediately. He keeps on staring at Illya as if trying to memorise every inch and curve of his face.

“Cowboy?” Illya questions. He pulls him nearer and cups his face in his hands. “Are you angry that I questioned you about Snow?”

Napoleon still keeps quiet and the silence is now worrying Illya. He runs a thumb along his partner's cheek.

“I’m sorry, Cowboy. I know it’s stupid and I didn’t mean to question you about him, I’m just—”

“It’s okay, Peril,” Napoleon interrupts the Russian from rambling. “But if you do it again, the punishment has got to be a lot worse than tonight.”

A small grin breaks out on Illya’s lips. “What kind of punishment do you have in mind?”

Resting his head just underneath Illya’s chin, Napoleon softly murmurs, “Another question for another time, my friend. But in the meantime, I’d like to get the same treatment I’d just given you. You know, for good measure.”

Hearing that, Illya then kisses the top of Napoleon’s head before pulling him up to face him, his hands going south.

“I thought you would never ask.”

 

***

 

“Are you sure Solo and Kuryakin are okay back there? Because I swear I hear Solo moaning like he is in pain. Even Illya. I fear they maybe arguing over something.”

Gaby groans loudly, not quite believing her luck having to sit with Snow and having to explain every little thing that is being heard from the back of the bus. So much for that sleep she craves.

“Fucking bastards, they can’t keep it quiet even for a moment!” she grumbles, hides her head under the pillow and screams.

It is indeed going to be a very, very long journey back home to London.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I googled that a bus ride from Liverpool to London would take about 5-6hours, so I am just assuming it takes around the same time (perhaps even more during the 60's). 
> 
> Note:  
> Merry Xmas and happy holidays to all dear readers. I hope you enjoy this silly attempt at some humor smut. Mistakes are all mine. :)


End file.
